


Conversations I Had in My Head That Should Have Been With My Therapist

by rizzei



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:04:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizzei/pseuds/rizzei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i have a lot of bullshit writings lying around, so im storing them on here. feel free to read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drabble

"Is that supposed to impress me?" I asked him, and he looked up at me with pursed lips and an entry-way gaze. I wanted to take my fingers and dip them into his skin, pulling out whatever remnants I could find, but I knew that people didn't work that way. So I kept my smoke cloaked fingers to myself, and instead of provoking any sort of engagement--within him or me--I stood from my spot and dropped my coke can at his feet, leaving him there without so much as a glance.


	2. Shizoid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a story i had been working on about a character who thinks he isnt human, in means to describe what its like to have schizoid personality disorder

5/29/15 

"Kill me," she rasped desperately, clinging violently to the collar of my shirt, the fabric stretched reluctantly at her pull like the tear of a torture rack and I listened for the small pops of thread giving way. My mouth catered a grimly pursed line and my arms rested motionlessly at my sides. "Kill me," she repeated roughly, the heavy wash of tears consumed the territory of her cheeks and her body shook with long gasping sobs of agony. "Kill me, kill me, kill me, kill me..." Her voice became a creak of sadness droning in the background of my mind, her words of self mutilation clotted my thoughts like a wet clump of dead leaves festering in a gutter. I peered down at her vacantly with mild obscurity, and though my stare seemingly burned holes into the top of her head I felt as though I was not looking at her at all. "...Kill me."  
It is only moments later that I have registered my actions, and looking down at the girl at my feet I have come to realize that my long claws have ripped their way through her human flesh and tissue, tearing muscle as though it were small strips of paper and suddenly I am in kindergarten again tearing small squares of coloured construction paper as substitute for confetti for an easter basket bought at a dollar store. Blood runs out of her easily as her body folds against the cold floor and her sobs have turned into shrill wailing. My eyebrows furrow, "Stop," I murmur uneasily, her screams of pain have me almost uncomfortable. "Stop, stop crying. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" She ignores my quiet protests as she beats her fists against concrete in attempt to make some sort of last minute statement. My expression twists unpleasantly and my ears ring with her cries, "Stop, I said stop--" locking my hands together I brought them down onto her head, crushing it onto the plaster of the earth until her blood sprayed against my face and her sobs faded into soft whimpers and eventually--nothing. I sat staring at her beaten body for hours, trying to understand her motives when it occurred to me that the human mind was not that of the human anatomy, and understanding it was not to be thought of; I wondered quietly why the woman begged for me to kill her when in the end it was determined that she, who fought so violently for her own demise, did not what to die at all.


	3. Drabble No. 2

i wash the dirt from my skin  
my skin from my bones  
and  
very carefully   
myself   
from

 

existence.


	4. Rain in Space

The universe, it seems, is an endless stretch of space. A catacomb of wonder that never fails to grasp desperately at the throats of our interest--a pull of which we often succumb to. It is this wonder that urges our fragile beings forward into the cosmos, and we take our chances with its infinity. An intimate dance with death only at the chance to dip our fingers among the stars, pulling out what our minds can only call magic. The universe reciprocates accordingly in attempt to accommodate our wishes, fueling it stars at maximum capacity and delivering us artifacts so that we may look upon the vastness that surrounds us with fondness. While I am not trying to assert that the vacuums of space are capable of love(for the universe is far beyond our childish concept of love, we are un-evolved and should not hold something as great as our blanketed sky of ethereal to our embarrassingly quintessential social construct)neither am I trying to say that it is not flustered as it has found itself tangled in a matter of trysts, for its resonant of rhapsodic pleadings has reached an octave that touches even me. The universe, it seems, wants to be noticed.   
I am grateful for space. I am grateful for its centuries of stars and planets, and I am grateful for the atoms and molecules that build our cells so that they may pepper across our bones, creating tissue and muscle, caking unto us as we are rewarded with our organs(and I am grateful for ninth grade Biology for teaching me that as well). And with this newly found structure I will lift my eyes from the ground and gaze upon the heavens and its succulent symphony of gas light angels and weep with the knowledge that they and I are made from the same beads of greatness that thread us into the beings we are today. As a single being I cannot promise a thought to reside within the minds among us all, for we are all opinionated creatures and are born into a pool of diversity, and it is only natural that our thoughts may differ, but I like to think that the rest of us are grateful, as well.


	5. Prodigy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mecha reminiscences abt the past

"I was a prodigy once," his voice is flat and dim, like the light inside of him was dead, and his words heavy with gravity as they barely made their way into the air, clouding momentarily in the atmosphere before settling upon the cold, hard ground. His face was nearly lost in the darkness, though the soft glow of the moon gave sight to small features amongst his profile--the rim of his nose, the hum of his olive-toned cheeks, glistening of lips wettened with wine, and the reflection of the moon in the pools of his eyes. He rolled over in the grass so that he was now lying on his side, facing Salem with a sad smile as he tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. "I was so young back then, so full of life and ready to show the world what I had to give." He clung to Jareth's rosary with an absent mind, and though his face was dull with expression the strong hold he gave to the piece of jewelry showed that he was not ready to let go of the past. He continued his story with a quiet voice. "But I was also a human back then, too, and I think that's something legends and prophecies often forget. You can foresee heroes, crown saviours of the new world and set them on journies, but you can't change the fact that they breathe and talk like the rest of us. Yes, I was born a messiah, I was born to prophesize religious teachings and resurrect the life of moral judgment, but two hundred years later and I don't feel like I've done a damn thing. Shit, I just got a bunch of people killed by playing soldier in a war that didn't even concern me. I was selfish, and only thought of myself, and didn't realize what was going on until I lost an armada of people I cared about. I don't know what I would have done to save them in the past, if I had the chance, I like to think I'd have done whatever it was I could do to protect them, but the amount of faith I have for my own past self is so little I don't think it even exists. I'd have run away, most likely, run far off and pretend I didn't hear their screams." He falls silent, gaze dead to the physical world as he's lost in his own mind, recalling dead memories of dead people he'd rather not think about. Salem rests a tender hand on his cheek to bring him back.   
"But what would you do now to save them? Would you run away now, if they were still alive?" She asks, her own voice gentle and soft as he places his own hand over hers.   
"No," the word was barely audible, but she could read it off his lips. She wanted to cry, watching him cower in the darkness of his own memories. She wanted to hold him like a mother would, to protect him from the horrors of the world, but she knew it was far too late for that. He often spoke of when he was "young", but to her he was still a child and just as scared of the world as anyone else. She settled into the realization that the saddest thing she'd ever learned was that even the greatest of her heroes were human. "No, I wouldn't run away." He pauses, closing his eyes for a short second before remeeting her gaze. "I'd die with them."   
She is quiet, and her whole body fills with a sadness she knows she cannot cure, for it is not hers to coddle. And then the tears spill, whether it is Salem or Mecha who cries first is unknown, but she pulls him into her arms as her body shakes with sobs. Mecha cries silently into her hair as she holds him deathly close to her, as if she were afraid some outside forces were coming to take him away. She wants to love him, she wants to be enough for him and to fill the vacant spaces in his chest, but she knows she is not and never will be--she knows he has lost too much to be cured with a kiss. So instead she cradles him as if he were still a child, and she lets him cry like he never got the chance to when he was one.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry if this is weird out of context? most of my writings are just excerpts from other stories ive written so if your interested in hearing more about them feel free to ask


End file.
